


Unreal

by Othelle (zeapear)



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mike is a shameless flirt, Post-Issue #608, light humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeapear/pseuds/Othelle
Summary: Running out of options, Mike turns his attention back towards Foggy’s business card. While Foggy’s connection to Daredevil is far from ideal, Mike thinks, it appears that he has been left with no other choice.-With nowhere else to turn, Mike Murdock seeks out the help of one Foggy Nelson.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this idea since before the Soule Mike issues dropped, but only now have I actually sat down to write it.
> 
> This fic will (hopefully) be largely canon-compliant, taking place post-issue #608. The main point of canon divergence I have chosen is that Mike never went to Fisk, and instead turned to Foggy. This fic begins the first night after Mike escapes from Daredevil and Reader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor content warning for a brief, non-graphic depiction of a character vomiting.

## Mike

The darkness clings heavy and familiar as Mike stares sightlessly at the ceiling, ghost shapes skittering across the yellowing plaster as his eyes adjust to the gloom. A narrow sliver of light slips into the room from between threadbare curtains, the filtered glow of New York at night absurdly bright against the surrounding dark. Mike sits upright and allows his eyes to trace the silvered outlines of objects in the room.

Familiar shapes are rendered strange in the abstracting darkness. Carelessly discarded clothing becomes an ethereal landscape, creases in fabric forming the peaks and valleys of an alien topography. The image shifts in the barely-there light, and each time Mike tries to follow a window-lit ridge from start to finish he finds that it slips away, swallowed by the surrounding dark. Further back, in front of the window, are an armchair and a sad little table. The armchair casts a stalwart silhouette, its boxy shape haloed by the fuzz of a million tiny polyester fibres catching the light. The gloom covers the myriad of stains marking the cheap upholstery, but the slash of exposed padding across the right armrest is unmistakable. The table is small, barely large enough for one person, and the room key stands out dark against the reflective plexiglass tabletop.

The motel room had been the cheapest Mike could find, but the cash he had swiped from Matt’s wallet would only cover a single night. With no form of identification, no income, and nothing but the clothes on his back, Mike would need to work something out fast.

He turns and squints at the ancient digital clock, 2:27am displayed in unforgiving green. He gropes across the rickety bedside table, tired fingers finding the lamp switch. The ancient lightbulb chokes slowly to life, starbursts popping in his vision at the sudden brightness. Mike swings his legs out of the cramped single bed and pads his way to the tiny ensuite. It looks as though sleep isn’t coming tonight.

Mike steps onto the musty bath mat and stands before the mirror, holding his own unflinching gaze. Under the harsh fluorescents he looks alien, all unforgiving angles and deep shadows. He looks like Matt, like Dad. He runs a trembling hand over his pale face, watching the push and pull of flesh over bone. Mike’s fingers trace the ridges of teeth through his cheek, fingertips skirting across his lips and down to the divot in his chin. He feels the scrape of stubble, fingers ghosting along skin left uneven from years of shaving scars, breakouts, and fights. He feels the bridge of his nose, fingers tracing the bump of a long-healed break.

When they were kids, before the accident, Mike and Matt had gotten into one of the worst fights of their childhood. Mike can’t remember how it began, but it had ended with the two brothers exchanging unpractised blows in an alleyway, red faced and screaming. Matt had broken Mike’s nose, and Mike had given Matt an impressive black eye in return. In the aftermath they had sat on the concrete for long minutes, exhausted and sniffling, until Matt finally stood up, wiped the snot from his face, and helped Mike to his feet. Dad had chewed them out to hell and back when they got home, but after tending to their hurts he had taken them for ice cream. That night Mike had wordlessly crawled into Matt’s bunk, and together the brothers made silent amends.

Mike tears his eyes away, shaking hands dropping to the rim of the sink. He feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. None of it was real. None if it had _ever_ been real. Nausea overtakes him as he remembers shared birthdays and inside jokes, stupid fights and tearful reconciliations, matching Halloween costumes and Christmas mornings. Heart racing, he remembers the day of the accident, sitting next to Matt’s hospital bed as monitors beeped around them. He remembers looking at the bandages around Matt’s face, and realising, for the first time, that one of them was going to die before the other. He remembers Dad’s funeral, and the numbness that followed. He remembers blaming Matt for Dad’s death.

Mike’s body heaves as he retches into the toilet, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his clammy forehead. He shivers violently as his body purges itself of Pad Thai and cheap beer, snot bubbling and tears streaming down his cheeks. When his stomach is finally empty he flushes and wipes his mouth, allowing himself a full bodied sob as he rests his head against cool porcelain. For the first time in his life, Mike Murdock is completely alone.

* * *

Somewhere, a car alarm is going off. Mike groans as consciousness slowly creeps in, body aching as he rolls onto his back. Sleep retreats the instant his skin hits cold tile, and Mike jolts upright to see that he had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, exhausted and utterly drained. It has been a long time since he’s woken up like this, and there is something strangely nostalgic about waking up next to the toilet after a night spent cradling it. Admittedly, the puking was usually the aftermath of a night of debauchery and drinking, and not the result of a sudden-onset existential crisis. His back pops magnificently as he stretches, and he makes no effort to stifle a massive yawn.

The water pressure is terrible, but the shower is hot and that’s all Mike can ask for. He has no toothbrush, but he makes an effort to scrub the sour taste of vomit from his mouth using hot water and his fingers. Mike normally wouldn’t touch the tiny sachets of complimentary shampoo and conditioner with a ten foot pole, but it feels comfortingly familiar to rub the product into his hair. His stubble itches slightly, but there’s not much that can be done about that. It’s not perfect, but by the time he steps out of the steamy ensuite Mike feels human again. Last night had been a moment of weakness, and he has no plans to repeat it.

The clock reads 9:43am, meaning that he has just over an hour to vacate the room for an 11am checkout. Threadbare towel wrapped around his waist, Mike lays out everything he owns. The final inventory is pitiable, amounting to the clothes he has been wearing since he was “born” just under 48 hours ago, a stolen handgun, a pair of sunglasses, and 13 dollars and 85 cents in cash. Remembering something, Mike digs into the front pocket of his crumpled jeans. He fishes out a small rectangle of thick cream-coloured paper, and runs his fingers along the embossed lettering and braille indentations of Foggy Nelson’s business card.

Mike sits on the edge of the unmade bed, considering his choices. He had pocketed the card on a whim as he was leaving Foggy’s office, gun tucked into his waistband as he escorted the surprisingly calm lawyer down to the street. Now, as he looks around him, he is incredibly thankful to have it with him.

Mike has never been especially close to Foggy, but he knows that Matt loves the man with an enviable fierceness. Not willing to trust his memories from before his “birth,” Mike thinks back to how Foggy had acted yesterday. The man had remained composed and reasonable, even when Mike had drawn a gun on him, and he had shown a seemingly genuine willingness to help. Mike’s own memories of Foggy paint him as a kind man, honest and upright to a fault, but Mike is hesitant to believe anything from before he had found himself at the Bar With No Name. Foggy seems the perfect person to turn to, barring one major problem. Daredevil.

Mike runs a frustrated hand through his damp hair, tossing the business card onto the bed. No matter where he turns, he knows that Daredevil – and Reader – won’t be far behind. His first instinct had been to turn to Matt, but the risk to the both of them was too high. Matt’s relationship with Daredevil is an unknown variable, and Mike is hesitant to test the limits of fraternal love considering that Matt, until two nights ago, was an only child. A quiet part of Mike is also glad of an excuse not to see Matt just yet, as it gives him time to gather his thoughts. Seeing his brother regard him so impersonally only served to remind Mike of the nightmare in which he seems to now be living, and he doesn’t know if he can handle another confrontation with the stranger wearing his twin’s face.

With Matt off the table, Mike’s pool of contacts is dangerously small. He struggles to remember who else he knows in New York, but all he can recall are vague, formless figures. Surely he must have had friends, enemies, lovers? All of his memories away from Matt are hazy and insubstantial, smoky recollections devoid of detail or substance. He knows that he is a charismatic and sociable person in the same way that he knows that he is the son of Jack Murdock, yet Mike cannot point to a single definite memory to back that claim. He knows that he has dated, yet he cannot remember the names or faces of any past partners. His memories feel like placeholders; crude indications of a history devoid of particulars.

Running out of options, Mike turns his attention back towards Foggy’s business card. While Foggy’s connection to Daredevil is far from ideal, Mike thinks, it appears that he has been left with no other choice.

## Foggy

Foggy sighs as he unlocks his apartment, tie already undone and hanging limp around his neck. His office had been temporarily relocated as a consequence of yesterday morning’s chaos, with Foggy needing to spend the next few days working out of whatever space was available. The room to which he had been moved today was eerily reminiscent of some of the places Matt and himself had interned out of, and while Foggy considers himself a sentimental person, he holds no special love for working out of a glorified cupboard. To add insult to injury, Foggy had also managed to spill coffee all over his second-favourite shirt, and pigeons had stolen half of his sandwich during a moment of weakness. All in all, today had not been great.

He flicks on the living room lights, and almost screams when he sees a familiar silhouette sitting expectantly on the couch.

“Matt, we’ve talked about this. Come over and knock like a normal human being.” Foggy says, willing his heart rate to return to normal.

“Wrong brother,” The figure replies coolly, and Foggy freezes in the middle of removing his shoes. “Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Foggy’s fingers shake with adrenaline as he finishes untying his laces, but his voice remains steady. “Then why are you here?”

Eyes hidden behind dark shades, Mike’s expression is unreadable. Foggy notices, however, that his mouth twitches slightly, lips moving to form the ghost of a frown. It is a strangely familiar expression, and one that he has seen Matt make often. “Do I need a reason to visit, Foggy?” He asks with practiced nonchalance, the rigidity with which he holds himself belying the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Foggy bristles. He is not in the mood to play games tonight. “Cut the bullshit and answer the question, Mike.”

A long moment stretches between them. Finally, Mike seems to crumple slightly and he lets out a long breath. The bravado with which he had held himself dissipates, leaving him looking tired and deflated. He removes his shades to rub at his face, and Foggy notices that the glasses had hidden dark bags beneath Mike’s eyes. He doesn’t look at Foggy directly, but he doesn’t put his glasses back on. “I need your help,” he says finally, mouth twisting as though it pains him to admit it.

Foggy finally steps into the room, removing his suit jacket and placing his briefcase on the table. He considers Mike, still distrustful. “Why me? Why not Matt?” he asks, taking a seat in the armchair furthest from Mike.

Mike opens his mouth to answer, but pauses. He considers his words carefully. “Matt is… tricky,” he offers, and pauses for so long that Foggy wonders if that was the entire thought. “I don’t know him as well as I would like to right now,” He finishes finally.

Foggy nods. Unfortunately, he is all too familiar with the challenges that come with trying to know Matt Murdock. “That still doesn’t answer my first question, though. What makes you think that you can trust me?”

“I don’t,” Mike says with surprising honesty. “You could call Little Red Riding Horns right now and let him know that Matt Murdock’s imaginary friend is crashing on your couch, but my gut tells me that you won’t.”

“And why won’t I?”

“The Foggy Nelson I knew could never turn down an honest cry for help. You were always closer to Matt than I ever was in that regard,” Mike says, still avoiding eye contact. This was more honesty than Mike had planned for, Foggy thinks.

A silence stretches between them as Foggy deliberates. Finally, he speaks. “What do you need?”

Mike meets his eyes for the first time. “Right now I mostly need a place to stay. It’s surprisingly difficult getting around when you don’t technically exist,” Mike admits. “I should be out of your hair within a week.”

“And what about after?”

Mike grins for the first time that night, his usual devil-may-care attitude shining through amidst the uncharacteristic seriousness. “I never have been one for planning ahead. I wouldn’t say no to you using your hotshot lawyer brain to uncook my goose, but right now I’m more excited for the opportunity to sleep somewhere that doesn’t look like the beginning of a snuff film.”

This sparks Foggy’s memory, tension returning. “Where’s the gun?”

Mike’s smile wilts. “Here,” he says, pulling it carefully from his waistband and laying it on the coffee table. “I considered getting rid of it, but I wasn’t convinced that you’d let me stay. It’s not loaded,” He adds, noticing Foggy’s expression.

Foggy’s mouth is dry as he looks at the weapon. He is uncomfortably familiar with the feeling of having one pointed at him. “What would you have done if I’d said no?”

“I wouldn’t fucking shoot you if that’s what you think,” Mike retorts, looking hurt.

“That’s not what I meant,” Foggy sighs, running his hands over his face. “I just mean, where would you have gone?”

Mike is silent for a stretch, before finally speaking. “I’m sure I’d be able to find someone willing to take me in. This city is full of people, and this wouldn’t be the first time I’d need to rely on the kindness of a lonely stranger.”

“And what about the gun?”

“Not all strangers are as charitable as you are, Foggy.”

Foggy considers this, eyes fixed on the weapon looming unnaturally large against the comfortable domesticity of his living room. “The gun isn’t staying.”

Mike nods. It looks as though he had expected this. “I’ll get rid of it tomorrow. Disassemble it and toss it in the nearest dumpster.”

Foggy nods, satisfied. “It can live in my linen cupboard tonight,” he cedes, taking the weapon gingerly. This isn’t the first time he has held a gun, but the icy thrill that sizzles through his fingers at the touch of cold metal is still as fresh as ever. Even unloaded, he knows that a gun is not something to be handled lightly. He trusts Mike, but he checks that the gun is unloaded anyway. Satisfied, he stands. “Have you eaten today?”

Mike has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “I may or may not have raided your fridge while I waited for you to get home,” he admits, watching as Foggy makes his way to the hallway cupboard. “There’s still a serving of Chinese left, though.”

Foggy sighs, depositing the gun and returning to the living area. “How did you even get in here?”

Mike shrugs. “I was considering trying to climb the fire escape or giving up and sitting outside, but the lady across the hall saw me and thought I was Matt. I told her I’d forgotten my key, and she told me that she had a spare. She let me in.”

Foggy groans. He had forgotten that Eva still had a spare key. A few months back he had needed to go to Boston for a week, and he had given her a key in the vain hope that his sad collection of houseplants would miraculously begin to thrive under the ministrations of anyone other than Foggy. Upon his return the plants had looked slightly less miserable, though their respite was short-lived as Foggy’s complete lack of a green-thumb proceeded to usher them towards sad and inevitable deaths. Eva had tried to return the key, but in a fit of desperation he had insisted she keep it in the unlikely event that he ever attempted to grow anything again. He would need to take it back now.

“I don’t even have plants anymore,” Foggy laments.

“Yeah, that did confuse me,” Mike observes.

Foggy opens the fridge and sighs, grabbing the leftover Chinese to reheat. It looks as though Mike has finished off Sunday’s pizza, and Foggy suspects that there are fewer beers than there had been this morning.

When the Mongolian beef has been sufficiently nuked, Foggy settles onto the couch with a comfortable finality. “So,” he says, and Mike turns from the bookshelf he had been examining. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but that feels redundant at this point. I take it that you’ve found the bathroom already?”

Mike grins. “Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ with relish. “I’m a big fan of your shampoo, by the by. I love a man who isn’t afraid of florals.”

Of course Mike has treated himself to Foggy’s ensuite. Foggy doesn’t know why he expected any different. “Thanks,” he says, defeated. “It was a gift from Matt.”

A shadow seems to pass over Mike’s face, jaw tightening slightly at the mention of his brother. It passes almost as soon as it appears, however, and Mike’s carefully carefree expression falls back into place. “Seems like the gene for good taste didn’t skip Matty-boy entirely,” he muses flopping indecorously onto the armchair opposite Foggy. “Exhibit A, of course, being present company,” he adds, flashing Foggy a devilish smile and an extremely unsubtle wink.

Unsure of how to respond to such an overt display, Foggy takes another bite of Mongolian beef. “Y’know,” he says between mouthfuls, “you’re gonna need some new clothes soon.” Now that he is paying attention, Foggy is aware of the fact that Mike does not appear to have changed outfits since he saw him yesterday morning.

Mike sniffs disdainfully. “I considered liberating some of your own wardrobe, but I doubted that anything would fit,” he admits. “I could have gone naked, if you’d have preferred.”

Foggy has never been a praying man, but now he sends up a silent prayer for strength to a deity he isn’t sure he believes in. “No, Mike, that would not have been preferable. Anyway, I think I have some of Matt’s old clothes squirrelled away somewhere.”

Mike’s eyebrows rise at this, though he gives no comment. _Let him assume what he wants_ , Foggy thinks. The (incorrect) assumption that he and Matt have had sex is preferable to the truth, which is that Foggy has kept a spare set of Matt’s clothes since the first time his best friend had crawled through his window, dressed as the devil and half-dead. “I’ll grab you some clothes after I’ve finished eating.”

“Thanks, babe,” Mike says, stifling a yawn.

“Not your babe,” Foggy yawns back, taking the last few bites of beef. “Come, on let’s grab you something to sleep in.”

Mike ends up commandeering one of Foggy’s old college tees and a pair of Matt’s sweatpants to sleep in, and Foggy can’t help but notice the subtle differences between the brothers’ bodies as Mike brazenly rips off his shirt before Foggy has the chance to offer any modicum privacy. Mike’s frame appears surprisingly soft compared to Matt’s, hard lines tempered by a thin layer of padding. Where Matt’s abdomen is marked by constellations of scars, Mike’s skin is smooth and pale, dusted with freckles and the occasional mole. Before Mike can remove his pants Foggy turns back to face the wardrobe, digging deeper in search of any more of Matt’s clothes. “I wasn’t kidding when I said nudity wasn’t preferable,” Foggy snarks into a pile of shirts.

“Good heavens, we wouldn’t want to tarnish your sparkling reputation would we, Mr. Nelson,” Mike drawls back, the perfect impression of a Southern belle. “Fear not, the beast is now caged,” he adds after a second, voice back to its regular New York bite.

Foggy tosses a few more shirts over his shoulder to Mike before turning to face him again. “I think that’s everything of Matt’s. I only have a pair of his old trainers for shoes, but it’s better than nothing.”

Mike whistles appreciatively. “When you said you had some of brother dear’s old clothes I didn’t realise you meant that he was operating a small runway out of your closet.”

Foggy shrugs noncommittally. “It’s just more convenient this way,” _for when he needs an outfit that isn’t bright red and covered in blood_.

“Matt you sly dog,” Mike says, more to himself than Foggy. Foggy bites his tongue, but resigns himself to the fact that Mike will continue to think that he and Matt are an item. It’s not the first time it has happened, and he suspects that it won’t be the last.

“Right. Well, the couch is made up, and I need to get to sleep. I have work at nine tomorrow, but I should hopefully be back by six,”

Mike nods, sauntering out of the bedroom. “Night night, Foggy,” He says, waving a hand lazily over his shoulder at Foggy. “Sweet dreams,” he says, turning at the doorframe to offer a dramatic wink.

Foggy sighs, and shuts the door behind him. What has he gotten himself into?

## Mike

Mike rouses slowly, the rich aroma of coffee luring him gently from sleep. At first he is confused as to where he is, but as consciousness slowly creeps in so do memories of the past few days. Sitting up, he takes in his surroundings. Morning light floods Foggy’s apartment, blinds rolled up on the floor to ceiling windows covering the wall opposite the kitchenette. Flurries of dust motes dance in each sunbeam, disturbed by the gentle hubbub of the morning routine. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it is just after eight in the morning. Turning to face the kitchenette, Mike sees Foggy absently sipping from a steaming cup of coffee, eyes focused on the laptop perched on the counter.

Roused by movement, Foggy glances over to Mike and raises his coffee in a perfunctory greeting. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Mike replies, voice raspy from sleep.

Foggy returns his gaze to the laptop screen, waiting for Mike to finish stretching before he speaks. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove, and cereal in the cupboard. I know you don’t have a phone, but I’ve left my mobile number on the counter just in case.”

Mike nods, hiding a yawn behind his hand. “Thanks, Fog.”

Inwardly, Foggy marvels at the domesticity of the scene. Just 48 hours earlier Mike had been holding him at gunpoint, and yet here he is, offering the man coffee and trusting him not to ransack his apartment while he’s at work. What would Matt think, he wonders.

Stepping aside to allow Mike access to the coffee pot, Foggy considers his options. “Today, we’re going to need to deal with the gun.”

Mike nods, pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding a generous amount of sugar. “Like I said last night, I was planning on disassembling and trashing it.”

Foggy purses his lips, thinking. “I wish I had a better solution. Are you happy to do that while I’m at work?”

Mike shrugs. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve needed to dump contraband.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you should be telling that to a lawyer?”

“I dunno, do imagined crimes count?” Mike grins, taking a long sip. “My record is spotless, your honor.”

Foggy sighs and checks his watch. “I’ve got to head to work now, but I want to talk about this more tonight. Try not to destroy the apartment while I’m gone.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Mike says with a lazy salute, taking a seat at the small two-person dining table.

Foggy downs the rest of his coffee, grabbing his briefcase from where he had left it near the door. “See you tonight, Mike,” he calls from the entrance, followed by the soft thud of the door swinging closed.

Silence settles comfortably over the apartment as Mike sips his coffee, still in the process of waking up. Wandering towards the wall of windows, he looks down and watches the hustle and bustle of Hell’s Kitchen unfold below him. It’s strange, he think, how simultaneously familiar and completely alien everything feels. When had he last been in New York?

The memories are hazy, but he remembers joking with Foggy and flirting with Karen around the offices of Nelson and Murdock. He and Matt hadn’t spent much time together, then. They always seemed to miss each other, passing like ships in the night. They must have had another falling out, he supposes. Looking out across the skyline it seems so long since he was here last, and the city seems to have changed drastically in the interim. Of course, Mike thinks with a twist in his gut, that he had never really been here in the first place.

Turning back from the window, Mike directs his attention towards the photo frames lining the walls. He had given these perfunctory glances last night, but now, in the morning light, he finds himself drawn to them. Moving past the framed diplomas and certificates, Mike stops in front of a photograph near the entrance, chest tight. Foggy, Matt, and Karen smile at him from behind glass, frozen in time. They look unbelievably young as they pose in front of the door to the law offices of Nelson and Murdock, standing proud and excited for what the future holds. Mike’s gaze lingers on Karen, her smile radiant and playful. How had she died, he wonders?

Unable to stop himself, he reaches out a hand to touch the frame, a silent goodbye. As ridiculous as it now sounds, there had been a time when he had thought that he might marry Karen Page. It feels like a million years ago now, another life. In many ways, he supposes, it was.

Tearing his eyes away from Karen’s smile he looks to the next photo. Here, Matt and Foggy stand in front of a fancier looking Nelson and Murdock sign, though now there is the added name of ‘Blake.’ To Mike’s surprise, Matt has his arm around a dark haired woman, her eyes concealed behind tinted sunglasses, hands clutching a cane. Another woman Mike doesn’t recognise smiles at the camera from a wheelchair, and next to her stands an athletic woman with dark red hair wearing a leather jacket. One of them must be Blake, Mike supposes. Matt and Foggy look older and more world-weary, and Karen is notably absent. There are other photos lining the walls, but Mike doesn’t recognise anyone else besides Matt and Foggy in any of them.

The rest of the morning is quiet as Mike practices the rituals of domesticity, tidying the couch where he had slept and humming a half-remembered tune as he rinses out his cereal bowl. He isn’t normally one for cleaning up after himself, but he figures that he owes Foggy at least this small kindness. He knows that he will need to deal with the gun soon.

Drying his hands on his pants, Mike stands before the linen cupboard. The gun is where Foggy had left it last night, snugly cushioned in a nest of spare towels and bedsheets. Removing it gingerly, Mike begins to dismantle the weapon. Donning a pair of Foggy’s rubber dishwashing gloves, he methodically wipes down the metal for prints, more for Foggy’s sake than his own. He doubts that the gun will be found, let alone examined, but it will be easier if Foggy’s prints from holding the gun last night aren’t found. Finally satisfied, Mike places the dismantled gun in a plastic shopping bag alongside the trash from last night’s dinner and prepares to leave the apartment.

The cloak and dagger approach feels absurd to Mike, but then again so does everything this week. He feels strangely reminded of the old spy films he and Matt used to watch when they were kids, staying up late in front of the small television set while dad was out at a match. No one approaches him as he makes his way down to the street, but from behind his shades he can see that one of Foggy’s neighbours, an elderly man, looks at him curiously from where he is collecting his mail. _He thinks I’m Matt_ , Mike realises belatedly, mentally kicking himself for his lack of foresight.

Straightening his posture into a semblance of Matt’s, Mike is thankful for the protection that his sunglasses offer. He has no cane, but it is too late to do anything about that now. Moving further towards the wall, Mike brushes the plaster with his hands in a pantomime of feeling his way across the foyer. He prays that the man will have the decency to not approach him.

“Good morning, Mr Murdock,” the man says, and Mike grits his teeth. He isn’t in the mood to roleplay having a stick up his ass à la Matt.

“Good morning,” Mike replies, feigning slight surprise at being addressed. He hopes that the pleasantries will stop there.

“I haven’t seen you around here for a while,” the man says, which surprises Mike. “I hope you and Foggy haven’t had a row.”

“No, nothing like that,” Mike replies steadily, thankfully almost at the door. “Work has just been busy. You know, New York, lots of crime.”

“Well, be sure to say hello to Foggy from Linda and I. Tell him that we were serious when we said we wanted him over for lasagne night.”

“Will do,” Mike says, flinging open the door and exiting as swiftly as possible while still feigning blindness. It had surprised him to hear that Matt wasn’t a frequent visitor here recently, especially given the fact that Mike was becoming increasingly certain that he and Foggy were sleeping together. Then again, the words of a single elderly neighbour weren’t exactly gospel in this situation. Filing the information away for later consideration, Mike turned down the street, hoping that no one else would “recognise” him now that he was in public. Luckily, the denizens of Hell’s Kitchen appeared too preoccupied with their own lives to notice as Mike slipped down a side alley and tossed the trash bag into a convenient dumpster.

## Foggy

The first thing Foggy hears as he enters his apartment is swearing. Prepared for the worst, he peers apprehensively into the kitchen. Mike, seemingly oblivious to Foggy’s return, is frantically alternating between stirring a saucepan and haphazardly dicing vegetables, his jaw set in an almost comedic look of determination.

“Is everything okay?” Foggy asks, shrugging off his blazer and loosening his tie.

“Everything is fine,” Mike grits out, barely looking up to acknowledge Foggy’s presence. “I just got the timing wrong. The onion is going to burn,”

Foggy rolls up his sleeves and squeezes around Mike to wash his hands in the sink. “You focus on the onion; just tell me what needs doing,”

“If you could finish dicing the mushrooms that would be great, and the carrots need to be grated,” Mike says, shifting so that Foggy has enough space to work.

Automatically reaching for the drawer with his apron, Foggy laughs when he sees that Mike is already wearing it. “What made you decide to cook tonight?” He asks, starting to chop the mushrooms.

“I got bored, and I saw that you had the ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise,” Mike replies, throwing some garlic into the pan.

“Well, I’m certainly not complaining,” Foggy hums appreciatively. “It smells great.”

They don’t talk much as they cook, each too focused on the task at hand. Together they manage to avoid burning down Foggy’s apartment, and the bolognaise comes out tasting as good as either could have hoped for. It has been a while since Foggy has had enough time to cook for himself, and it’s nice, he thinks, sharing a home cooked meal with someone.

Comfortably full, Foggy sits across from Mike and considers him after they’ve finished eating. “So,” he says.

“So.”

“Michael Murdock.”

“Franklin Panklin Nelson.”

“Not my middle name, but that’s beside the point,” Foggy says, leaning forward. “I think it’s time we try and work out who, exactly, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you've enjoyed! I'm not sure when the next installment will come, but I do have further plans for this story. Comments are always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is ending up a lot angstier than I had initially anticipated, so hopefully that's your cup of tea!

## Foggy

Foggy’s gaze is steady as his eyes meet Mike’s, the other man’s face deceptively blank as the sun’s last rays illuminate the room in brilliant chiaroscuro.

“I already know who I am,” Mike says dismissively, shifting in his seat to flee the blinding golden beams.

“I certainly don’t,” Foggy replies, noting the tension seeping back into Mike’s posture. “At least, not the _you_ sitting here now.”

Mike folds his arms, perched apprehensively on the edge of the couch. “So what, then? Do we sit here playing twenty questions and braiding each other’s hair?”

Foggy snorts. “Not quite. I was thinking that maybe you could tell me what you remember about your past, and I could try and tell you our version of events.”

Mike chews his lip, before finally leaning back into the sofa. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“How about we start at the beginning.”

## Mike

 _The beginning_. It sounds so simple put like that, condensing his entire existence into one cohesive narrative. Mike’s thoughts are disjointed as he trawls the depths of recollection, fishing for specific events amidst the generic miasma of childhood memory. Is this normal, he wonders? Do real people have solid memories of the past, or does it all eventually fade into a fog?

“Well, I was born 25 minutes after Matt. Our birthday is October 21st,” Mike begins, watching Foggy’s face. It’s easiest to begin with the facts. “Our dad was a boxer; Battlin’ Jack Murdock. We never really knew our mother.”

Foggy’s face is impartial as he nods, hands folded demurely in his lap. “I got to meet Jack very briefly, just before he died. I went with Matt to watch his last fight.”

Mike nods. “I remember that, too. That was actually the first time I met you, funnily enough. Well, the old you. The fake you,” Mike says, fishing for the right words. “Whatever, you get what I mean. Matt was excited for dad to meet his new friend from college, but I think he was worried that I would corrupt you with my _indelicate ways_ ,” he adds, punctuating the sentiment with a suggestively quirked eyebrow.

“Oh, I was corrupted _long_ before I had met Matt,” Foggy snorts. “Anyway, here I didn’t meet ‘you’ until the first year of Nelson and Murdock. Matt was… working a case, freelance, and he needed an alias. He’d come into the office dressed like a used car salesman - no offense, Mike - and his hair all ruffled. Somehow, Karen and I were still green enough to believe him when he told us that he was actually Mike, Matt’s twin brother. Neither of us had heard of him, of course, but the idea that Matt was pretending to be his own twin was so ludicrous that it was somehow more believable that he really did have an estranged brother.”

Mike’s raises his eyebrows. “No offense taken, and that is ridiculous.”

“Well, that’s Matt for you,” Foggy sighs, looking both fond and exasperated.

“It’s good to know that he’s still a dumbass in this reality,” Mike says, smiling at the laugh that surprises out of Foggy. “Matt may have gotten the brains, but he certainly didn’t get the common sense.”

“As his best friend I plead the fifth,” Foggy says, raising his hands in an impartial gesture. “However, I’m not going to disagree,” he adds in a conspiratorial tone, and Mike grins. “What was it like growing up together?”

“Oh, it was a real gas. We fought like hell most of the time, but we were absolutely inseparable. It wasn’t until Matt went off to college that we really started to go our own separate way. And then dad died,” Mike says, throat suddenly thick.

Foggy tactfully pretends not to notice as Mike surreptitiously clears his throat and rubs his eyes, allowing the man a moment to regain his composure. “What about the accident?” He asks when Mike has finished.

“I know I’ve already cooked you dinner, but this is a bit heavy for a first date isn’t it?” Mike laughs nervously, feeling suddenly very exposed.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m, uh, not really used to talking about this stuff,” Mike replies, before taking a deep breath. “I wasn’t there when it happened,” he begins, after a pause. “We were fifteen, and I was working as a dishwasher at a local Italian joint that afternoon. Dad was always pushing at Matt to do well in school, but with me I think he was just happy when I wasn’t actively getting into fights. In the afternoons I would work odd jobs, and Matt would study.”

“That sounds like Jack,” Foggy says, nodding. “He was a good man, but the way Matt talks about him it sounds as though he could be… intense.”

“It’s hard to fault him for wanting us to have better lives than he did,” Mike says, shrugging. “He wasn’t perfect, but by God did he try.” Silence stretches between them as Mike stares at his hands, the tiny scars from dozens of ill-considered brawls cast in harsh relief in the amber twilight. “Y’know, when I was a kid I wanted to be a boxer, like him. I told him that once, on Fathers’ Day. I swear you coulda heard his heart break, and I had no idea why.” Mike swallows, remembering.

Dad had knelt in front of him, face deadly serious. ‘ _Never say those words again, you hear me,_ ’ he’d said, large hands gripping Mike’s shoulders with an almost painful strength. Mike had cried at the shock, big wet tears pouring down his seven-year-old cheeks as he dropped the handwritten Father’s Day card. Something in dad’s face had crumpled at that, and he’d removed his hands like he’d been stung. ‘ _It’s okay, sport,_ ’ he’d whispered half to himself, pulling Mike into a hug. ‘ _I just don’t want you to end up like your old man.’_

Grounding himself with a steadying breath, Mike returns his attention to the present. “Anyway, the accident.” He starts, meeting Foggy’s eyes once more. “Like I said, I was working that afternoon, so I didn’t find out until dad rang the shop to let me know that Matt was in the hospital. I must’ve set some kinda record with how fast I rode there, because the next thing I knew I was standing in the waiting room.” Mike doesn’t mention the cold panic that had overtaken him at the news, nor how his hands had shaken so badly that he couldn’t put the phone back in its cradle, dad’s panicked voice echoing in his ears. He doesn’t mention the buzzing numbness that had gripped him as he cycled in and out of traffic, not caring if he was hit because all he could think was a litany of ‘ _please, God, not Matt’_ over and over. Matt would’ve called it a miracle that he wasn’t hit, but Mike wasn’t willing to give the universe that much credit. “That was the first time I ever really saw dad cry.”

“That must have been rough,” Foggy says, reaching out a hand to awkwardly pat Mike on the shoulder. Mike suppresses a laugh at the clumsy gesture, but is quietly thankful for the support.

“It was. But hey, he lived.” Mike says, swallowing hard.

“Even so,” Foggy says, shrugging. “I don’t know how I’d cope if that’d happened to Candace.”

Mike frowns. The name doesn’t ring any bells. “Candace?”

“Oh, right,” Foggy says, looking sheepish. “Candace is my sister. Well, half-sister to be accurate.”

Mike is taken aback. “How did I not know this?” He has no memories of his Foggy ever mentioning siblings.

“Matt didn’t find out for a while, either,” Foggy admits, shrugging. “I guess that naivety wasn’t the only reason I was so ready to accept that Matt had a secret sibling; he wasn’t exactly the only one.”

“But why?” Mike asks, confusion written across his face. The revelation that he doesn’t know everything about Foggy shouldn’t come as a shock, yet he finds himself experiencing an odd sense of vertigo as it begins to sink in just how unfamiliar he is with this world and the people in it.

“Family can be complicated,” Foggy answers after a pause, sighing and moving to the kitchen to grab them beers. “As I said, Candace is my half-sister. Dad remarried after my mother asked for a divorce, and Candace was born out of his second marriage. I, on the other hand, spent a lot of time with my mother, who was, as Matt has eloquently put it, a heinous bitch.” Foggy pauses here to hand Mike his beer. “Anyway, I eventually went to live with dad and his new wife and kid, but there were still a lot of awkward conversations where we needed to explain the situation to people. To cut a long story short, it was easier for me to avoid talking about my family at all once I left home. It wasn’t until Candace came to visit that Matt learned that she existed.”

Mike lets out a long breath, processing what Foggy has just divulged. It’s bizarre, he thinks, them sitting there and exchanging personal histories like preteens at their first sleepover. “That’s rough,” he says instead, sipping at his beer.

“It was, but I lived,” Foggy says, echoing Mike’s earlier response, and Mike grins.

“Here’s to living,” Mike says, raising his glass in a toast.

“To living,” Foggy replies, the clink of their glasses loud in the otherwise silent apartment. Mike’s gaze wanders from their glasses, drinking in the dregs of the twilight hour in the apartment. The photographs on the walls are largely cast in shadow, but as Mike’s eyes skim them he feels his stomach sink, the levity of the moment gone in an instant.

“Foggy, what happened to Karen?”

## Foggy

Foggy stills. He had known that this question was coming, but he still feels utterly unprepared to answer it. He can’t bring himself to meet Mike’s intense gaze, the raw grief in the other man’s eyes stirring up memories that Foggy has long since filed away. It has been a long time since he has spoken about Karen.

“It was years ago,” he begins, swallowing heavily. The words sound hollow and inadequate. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. “She was murdered by a man called Bullseye.” Foggy doesn’t look at Mike, but he can hear the man inhale sharply. “Bullseye and Daredevil were fighting, and Karen,” Foggy takes a steadying breath, “Karen threw herself in front of a shot meant for Daredevil. She saved his life.”

Mike is silent for a long moment, and Foggy watches as his face contorts with the motions of grief. Finally, as the sun sinks completely below the skyline, Mike’s face settles into an icy mask of anger. “It all comes back to Daredevil, doesn’t it,” he snarls, voice dangerously low. “Big fucking help he was.”

Foggy’s fingers itch with the urge to grab Mike and tell him the truth, to tell him _‘your brother is the best man I know, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t miss her’_ but he can’t, so he balls his hands into fists and resists the urge to scream. “He tries, Mike. Harder than you know,” is what he says instead.

“Tell that to Karen Page,” Mike spits, and Foggy can’t help but flinch at the raw vitriol behind the words. There have been times where he has felt the same burning hatred for Daredevil, and shame curls low in his belly as he knows that he is now doing to Mike what he had hated Matt for doing to him. Foggy has never been a particularly good liar.

“He tried to save her,” he says instead, and the words are almost comically insufficient in the face of Mike’s grief.

“And yet she’s still gone,” Mike bites, hands clenched into fists. “She’s gone, and he’s still here to save the fuckin’ day.”

The sarcasm in Mike’s voice is acidic, and all Foggy can do is bite his tongue. “He’s not a bad man.”

“That would explain why he’s trying to kill me,” Mike shoots back. “What’s one more mistake to clean up, hey? Who cares about all the little people, so long as Daredevil gets his man!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Foggy pleads, grasping for control.

“Then what was it like, huh!?”

“He loved her!”

“ _I_ loved her!” Mike shouts, and the dam breaks. “I loved her so fucking much that it ached, Foggy,” he shouts, furious tears flowing thick. “If you love someone you don’t get them killed,” Mike is almost incoherent now, volume crescendoing with anger. “She’s _dead_ , Foggy! She’s dead, and it’s _his fucking fault!_ ”

Something in Foggy snaps, and before he knows it his arms are around Mike, cradling the other man like he was drowning. Mike’s speech has devolved into a heartbroken howl, and it’s all Foggy can do to hold him to his chest and hope that the snot will wash out. “We all loved her,” Foggy says soothingly, his own tears hot on his cheeks. “We all loved her.”

* * *

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, Mike’s broken sobs slowly becoming further and further apart as Foggy rubs reassuring circles into his back. It should feel awkward, Foggy thinks, but it isn’t. This isn’t the first time he has needed to console a grieving Murdock. Finally, slowly, like one awaking from a dream, Mike unballs his fists from the front of Foggy’s shirt, and sits up. The apartment is shrouded in gloom, and Foggy wonders if Mike is thankful for the concealing darkness.

“I’m sorry,” Mike says finally, voice thick and flat.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Foggy replies simply, standing up and stretching.

Mike is uncharacteristically silent as Foggy bustles around the apartment, clearing dishes and closing curtains. When Foggy finishes turning on the living room lamps, he turns to see Mike standing in front of the photo of Matt, Karen and himself next to the original Nelson and Murdock sign.

“We’d just won our first case,” he explains softly, loath to break the liminal quiet covering the apartment. “One of Karen’s photographer friends offered to help us commemorate the occasion.”

Mike nods stiffly, and Foggy notices that he has put his shades back on. The redness of his nose is still obvious, but Foggy allows him the illusion of composure.

“Karen was one of the most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” Foggy adds, examining his middle-aged reflection superimposed upon the frozen smiles on their young faces. “Her life wasn’t always happy, but she never failed to light up any room she was in. She was our cornerstone.”

From the corner of his eye, Foggy can see Mike’s jaw clench as he swallows. “I just wish I could have met her,” he says finally, voice small, and Foggy doesn’t have an answer for that.

“I can tell you about her, if you’d like,” he offers instead.

Mike doesn’t speak, but nods stiffly.

“Well, first of all, she was Mike Murdock’s biggest fan,” Foggy begins, steering them back towards the couch, and as he talks he watches as the grief etched into Mike’s features softens into something less jagged. “I can guarantee that she would have loved you.”

And Foggy talks. He talks about the early days, when they were all young and idealistic, and he talks about how shamelessly Matt-as-Mike would flirt with Karen, to her delight. He talks about how excited they all were for her when she began her acting career, heading to L.A. to become the next big star. Though it hurts, he talks about the lows she reached, and how strong she was as she chose recovery, and the work she did with the legal clinic and her role as an activist. He talks for what feels like hours, until finally he has nothing left to say.

Mike is silent for a long time. Finally, he removes his shades, and Foggy can see that his eyes are wet, but the anger is gone. “She was so strong.”

“She was stronger than most people,” Foggy replies, truthfully.

Mike nods, and Foggy notices him struggling to stifle a yawn. Just like that, the spell breaks.

“It’s late, and today has been exhausting. I think we should continue this discussion tomorrow,” Foggy says, standing to stretch.

“Roger that,” Mike agrees, rubbing his face. “I call first dibs on the shower.”

Foggy laughs, for the first time that evening he feels the tension drain from the atmosphere. “Try not to use all the hot water,” he calls after Mike as he makes his way to Foggy’s ensuite, already stripping off his shirt.

“I make no promises,” Mike offers over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.

Foggy sighs as he hears the water start, feeling suddenly drained as he stands in the living room alone. Today has been exhausting. Tomorrow he will need to try and talk to Mike about Daredevil, but for now it’s all he can do to stay on his feet as he prepares Mike’s makeshift bed on the couch for the night.

Tomorrow, he’s going to call Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I chose to make Mike 25 minutes younger than Matt, as Mike first appears in Issue #25 of Volume 1.
> 
> This chapter is slightly shorter than Chapter 1, but I hope you've enjoyed! As always, comments are greatly appreciated.


End file.
